


In Which I Kill Sherlock. Again.

by jbluphin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Angst and Humor, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Character Death, Crack, Fourth Wall, Gen, Humor, Meta, Metafiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jbluphin/pseuds/jbluphin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title speaks for itself. Also, crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which I Kill Sherlock. Again.

**Author's Note:**

> This... got away from me, somehow.

A shot rang out. Sherlock collapsed. With a cry, John ran to his side. Three years... three years of believing his best friend was dead, only to have him die again in front of his eyes? He didn't know if he could take it. He cradled Sherlock in his arms, blood red upon his hands as it leaked out of the detective's chest. Sherlock's mouth moved, a whisper emanating from his lips...

"Not... again..."

John leaned closer to catch the words. Sherlock gathered up his strength, and hoarsely said:  
"God damn it, woman - do you have to kill me every time??"

I paused, fingers to the keyboard, frowning. THAT wasn't what I meant to write - Sebastian Moran is a MAN, for one thing; gender-bent can be fun, but this wasn't that sort of story. 

"What?" asked John. "I don't understand, Sherlock."

"I said, why on EARTH do I have to die in every fic you write? This is the THIRD time in a row - are you out for my blood, or something??"

I stared. Was he... talking to me?

"Sherlock?" I typed, hesitantly (and feeling a bit silly).

"Oh, she speaks. I'm blessed." Even through the computer screen, the sarcasm was biting.

"How are you --"

"Forget that! That's not the point! You may have just started writing my stories, but surely even _you_ can come up with more creative ideas than inserting random major character death."

"It's not random, and I'm not doing it on purpose - I think of an idea, I write it. If an idea inspires me, it inspires me. If it doesn't, it doesn't. And currently, you just happen to... die... a bit... frequently..." I trailed off, staring at my keyboard. I sighed; I suppose he had a point, it had to be a bit rough to keep dying over and over.

"Look." I continued. "I'm not going to kill you EVERY time. Look at that fic I want to finish over the weekend! In that one, you even--"

"Yes, fine, in THAT one you make me a serial killer. How wonderful. So true to my original character, don't you think? Moriarty was many things, but he never managed to make me a murderer."

"I--"

"And how fucked up do you have to be to self-insert yourself as the murder victim? Most people fantasize about sleeping with me, not being gruesomely slaughtered by me. At least I'll get my goddamn revenge..."

I blushed - I'd been counting on people not catching that bit; one of the things about writing fanfiction was that my readers were all online, and didn't know me in real life. It wasn't something I broadcast around; I could count on one hand the number of people who knew about my writing who also knew me in person, with fingers to spare.

"LOOK." I snapped, typing on the keyboard with FAR more force than strictly necessary. "John here has got to grieve. Again. Which means you have got to die. Twice. The whole Reichenbach thing doesn't count as death for you, but it sure as hell counted for him! I'm going for the whole "Vertigo" thing, where you lose the person you love most, TWICE. It's tragic, it's heartbreaking, and I LIKE angst."

"You can have angst without KILLING me... Hell, just kill John again."

"HEY!" said John. "Watch it! So far, I've died and I've gone mad - that's hardly much better. And now I have to watch my best friend die again!"

Sherlock uttered a grumpy sound which might have been an apology, though I doubted it.

"OK, fine. Next fic I write -- after the serial killer one -- you won't die. Either of you. I won't even give you a murder. You'll just dance throughout life ever so happily, and everything will be DULL and BORING. Is THAT what you want?"

Both men winced.

"Although..." I mused, "that DOES give me an idea... hmm."

"There's no need for that." Sherlock interrupted. "I get your point. Now, If you'll excuse me, I have to get back to dying in John's arms." 

Sherlock sputtered, and lay still.

John glared. "Thank you. SO much."

"Moran," I typed coldly, "is reloading."

John fled the scene, hands still bloodied, and waved a two-fingered gesture over his shoulder.

I sighed.

"Fuck it. Next time, rocks fall, everybody dies."


End file.
